Daphne fought hard against tears she refused to let flow. Pride came to her rescue. She resolved not to let him see how he had hurt her. Instead she let her pain turn into anger. She would show him she did not care a snap of her fingers for his kisses!
She raised her chin. Her heart pounding, but her voice steady, she said, “Let us forget the matter, my lord. Neither of us has conceived a partiality for the other, so we can chalk up our imprudence to moon madness.”
Daphne could have sworn she saw him flinch before he bowed low over her hand. “May I escort you back to the ballroom, Miss Kendall?”
Searching for an escape, a place where she might compose herself, Daphne said, “No, I thank you. I shall retire to the ladies’ withdrawing room to repair my hair.”
Lord Ravenswood looked skeptically at her perfect coiffure, but, as he was relieved to have his apology over and done with, let her pass without further comment.
His conscience nagged him, and he sought to silence it by signaling to a footman for another glass of brandy. He told himself Miss Kendall had accepted his justification and apology gracefully. He ignored the voice in his brain that asked what he had expected her to do when spurned.
An unexpected weariness overcame Anthony, and he concluded he was past tired of dealing with females. He had made up his mind to marry Elfleta Blenkinsop, and it was a wise choice. Accepting a second glass of brandy from the footman, Lord Ravenswood took himself off to the card room.
He would have been appalled had he returned to the ballroom and observed his soon-to-be fiancé’s behavior.
Elfleta Blenkinsop had triumphantly told her mother of Lord Ravenswood’s stated intention to call on her father. The girl was doubly happy to impart the news to her parent as Mrs. Blenkinsop had lately chided her daughter about the slow progress she was making in bringing the handsome, wealthy earl up to scratch.
To say Wilhelmina Blenkinsop had been enthusiastic at what was tantamount to a proposal of marriage for her daughter would indeed be an understatement. She just barely managed to refrain from broadcasting the news throughout the ballroom. Only the certainty that her socially powerful hostess. Lady Pelham, would surely take exception to having Lady Rachel and Lady Stephanie’s ball overshadowed by such a juicy bit of gossip kept her silent.
Elfleta experienced the heady feeling of superiority. With the earl’s few words, she convinced herself of what she secretly had believed all along. She was a Toast. One of the Season’s belles. How could it be otherwise when the Earl of Ravenswood intended on making her his countess?
She swept onto the dance floor with her partners, nothing short of giddy. She flirted as she had never dared in the past, secure in the knowledge she was soon to be the envy of every other girl of the
beau monde
. Never a thought was spared that Lord Ravenswood, had he witnessed it, would scarcely appreciate such behavior.
It did not take Lord Guy long to notice Elfleta’s heightened color and shrill laughter. He begged a second dance with her and under his carefully sensitive questioning, she confided the news to him. Lord Guy wished her happy with every appearance of ease, promised to keep her secret, and told her the earl was the luckiest of men.
After he returned Elfleta to her mother, Lord Guy leaned moodily against a pillar and artfully took a pinch of snuff. Ravenswood had stolen a march on him, he decided. Miss Blenkinsop had been dangling after him, he was certain. Had she not particularly remarked on the fineness of his coat?
During their dance earlier in the evening, they had gone on quite comfortably about the latest fashions and scandals. Why, Miss Blenkinsop was a taking little thing and had enough sense to recognize he was setting a new fashion with his pom-poms and to compliment him on his savvy.
Lord Guy felt ill-used. The ball was flat. He pushed himself away from the pillar and wandered outside. A game of cards for higher stakes than what were being offered in the Pelhams’ card room was what he needed. There was a special deck of cards he found exceptionally lucky. He would stop at home and pick them up, then proceed to one of the gaming hells where he was not known.
Still in a sulk when he reached the Duchess of Welbourne’s town house, Lord Guy meandered up the stairs and threw open the door to his bedchamber. The sight that met his eyes checked him on the threshold.
Like a rainbow of spring flowers blown across a meadow, Lord Guy’s precious wardrobe of colorful coats lay strewn about the room. The drawers of his desk, bed table, and chest of drawers were pulled open, their contents spilling drunkenly out. A high-back chair by the fireplace was overturned. The open window swung to and fro in the night’s gentle breeze.
“My coats,” Lord Guy uttered faintly.
“Umh, umh” came a muffled voice.
Lord Guy walked to the other side of his bed, carefully avoiding stepping on any of his coats. He saw his valet lying upon his stomach on the floor, his hands and feet bound tightly with cravats.
“What the devil—” Lord Guy began, outraged almost beyond words at the mistreatment of his wardrobe.
Strong hands grabbed him from behind, and he found himself flung up against the wall. The breath knocked out of him, Lord Guy gasped for air and stared in horror at the masked intruder who was inches from his face. He did not dare struggle. The man twisted one of Lord Guy’s arms painfully behind his back. So great was the man’s hold around his collar. Lord Guy choked on his cravat.
“Where is the cat?” the housebreaker growled.
“C-cat? What cat?” Lord Guy stammered, terrified for his life.
The intruder tightened his grip. “I want the cat statue, and I want it now.”
Lord Guy’s mind raced. The ivory cat figurine he had stolen from the duchess? Is that what this was about? Had the duchess put this ruffian up to this? No. ’Twas impossible. He was dealing with a madman. Someone who had heard about the theft—
The intruder knocked Lord Guy’s head sharply once against the wall. “You have had enough time to think. The cat. Where is the cat?”
“I p-pawned it,” Lord Guy babbled, his head throbbing.
“What?” the housebreaker demanded. “You pawned it?”
“Y-yes. Needed the ready. You know how it is. A fellow finds himself in dun territory—” His head flopped on his neck as the thief shook him.
“What pawnshop did you take it to?” the man interrupted, his voice furious.
Lord Guy could not believe the burglar was going to all this trouble for one little cat carving. But who cared what motivated the man? He simply wanted out of this nightmare with his skin whole. He gave the direction of the pawnshop and said feebly, “I did not get that much for it. Only enough to keep my tailor at bay.”
A savage blow to the head met this statement, and Lord Guy crumpled unconscious to the floor. The valet moaned in fear.
Ignoring him, Vincent Phillips climbed out of the window from which he had entered the house and deftly descended the outside wall to the ground. He had remained undetected long enough to search all the servants’ quarters in the attics. He had started there, believing that, as a servant, the attics were where Miss Shelby was housed. His efforts in finding the Bastet statue had nonetheless been fruitless.
Desperate, he had expanded his search to Lord Guy’s room, where he was discovered by the valet coming into his employer’s room with a stack of newly laundered cravats.
Now Vincent ripped off his mask. His nostrils flared with rage. He could not believe a priceless statue had been sold for a fraction of its worth by some stupid fop, and it now lay in a pawnshop. He neither knew, nor cared, how the idiot had come upon the statue.
Disgusted, he made his way back to the Clarendon to wait for the opening of the shop on the morrow. He would pay whatever ridiculous price the shopowner required, take the Bastet statue, and book passage on the first ship headed for America. He hoped the Philadelphia collector appreciated all his efforts.
* * * *
In Upper Brook Street safe in his room that night, Eugene stared into the Bastet statue’s glowing citrine eyes.
“My goddess, we have suffered a setback tonight. I am fearful my master will not take the action necessary to secure Miss Kendall’s hand in marriage.”
To Eugene, Bastet’s golden eyes reflected scorn. His turbaned head dropped into his hands. “Matters are slipping out of control. And what is worse, I desire my freedom now more than at any time during my life, Bastet. I must be free for my wise lady, Leonie. I want to take care of her and show her the world.”
He raised his head and gazed into the cat goddess’s eyes once again. “Help me, Bastet.”
Eugene prayed long into the night. Before he finally retired, he vowed he would stay by his master’s side at every moment to prevent him from doing anything careless.
Monday was the fair. Perhaps there a way would be revealed to him on how to bring the two together. For all their sakes.
In Clarges Street, Daphne, too, remained awake long into the night.
The ride home from the ball in Lord Ravenswood’s coach progressed in a silence broken only by the earl’s brief outline of his plans to escort them to the fair.
At his distant, aloof manner, Daphne had been hard-pressed not to cry off from the outing. But she could not be so cruel to Miss Shelby, whom she knew was looking forward to the venture.
Pleading fatigue once they were home, Daphne excused herself from an inquisitive Leonie and retreated to her room. She removed her beautiful sea-green gown, washed her face and hands, and slipped into a warm night rail.
Dark red hair tumbled down her back when Daphne removed the pins holding it. She seated herself in a chair by the fire to brush it before going to bed.
Her thoughts immediately returned to Lord Ravenswood. Her heart danced with excitement as a picture of his handsome face sprang into her mind’s eye. Her brush strokes quickened.
But, almost at once, the joy turned to foreboding as she recalled his cold words.
It was a mistake
. The mingling of their lips, their breath, the shared intimacy. It had all been a mistake in his lordship’s opinion. She shivered in spite of the fire.
He had removed his glove to touch her hair with his bare hand, sending a rush of warmth through her body. How she would relish the feel of his hair against her fingers.
She would never have such an opportunity. Like the other gentlemen Daphne had known, Lord Ravenswood did not really want her. He had made his feelings clear. And this time, Miss Oakswine was not to blame.
Even more difficult was recognizing that, while it had not truly mattered with the others, it mattered with Lord Ravenswood. She loved him.
Daphne’s anguish peaked to shatter the last of her control. Her brush fell to the carpet with a soft thud, and she wept.
Several minutes passed before a low roar from the other side of the bedchamber door alerted her to Mihos’s presence. She rose, wiping the tears from her cheeks with one swift motion.
She opened the door, and Mihos entered with a majestic tilt to his head. Ever since the accident, the cat had developed a swagger. Seeing it now brought a reluctant smile to Daphne’s lips. “Come, Mihos, I am for bed.”
“Grraow,” the striped cat said in apparent agreement.
As she pulled the coverlet back and climbed into the four-poster. Daphne wondered how she would be able to part from the tiger-like cat. Surely at some point she would have to return Mihos to the earl.
The feline in question showed no signs of wishing to go anywhere that night. He curled up contentedly on top of the coverlet, directly between Daphne’s calves, and promptly fell asleep.
Without any such good fortune, Daphne stared up at the canopy, telling herself nothing would change between her and Lord Ravenswood by the time of the fair on Monday. Hoping, all the while, everything would.
Chapter Nine
By breakfast the following morning, a cross Lord Ravenswood decided his old business partner, Lord Montcross, must have held a secret grudge against him. Otherwise, he would not have cursed him with Eugene.
Since the earl had woken, Eugene had driven him near the brink of madness. The manservant had hovered over him, fussing like a mother hen, taking forever with the selection of the day’s attire and the grooming of his master. By the time Eugene shaved him and helped him dress, Anthony felt smothered.
In the small dining room, the earl tried to use the
Times
as a shield against further contretemps with the manservant. A footman poured him some coffee and moved to an array of hot dishes on the sideboard, but before he could inquire what his lordship desired, Eugene dismissed him with a flick of his fingers.
“Master, Mrs. Ware has cooked the eggs to perfection this morning. May I bring you some?”
“Very good,” Anthony replied vaguely.
Spooning the eggs onto a plate, Eugene asked, “And a rasher of bacon would be tasty as well, would it not, master?”
Anthony felt his temper rise. He snapped the newspaper. “Yes, Eugene. Add a muffin and some kippers, and that will be all,” he told him dismissively.
“Yes, master.” Eugene placed the heavy plate in front of Lord Ravenswood. “What are your plans for today?”
Anthony knew at once he did not want Eugene shadowing him while he went to ask Mr. Blenkinsop for his daughter’s hand in marriage. The manservant knew nothing of his decision to offer for her, and Anthony preferred to keep it that way. “I am going to Hoby’s to order a new pair of Hessians. I shall not require your presence.”
“As you wish, master.”
Drinking coffee, while Eugene stood guard from his position by the sideboard, Anthony considered his proposed meeting with Mr. Blenkinsop. The family would be pleased to accept his suit, of that there was no doubt.
Indeed, he reflected cynically, Mrs. Blenkinsop would lord his capture over the other matchmaking names. The
ton
in general would view the couple with approval.
A picture of a pair of light green eyes sprang into his mind. What would Miss Kendall think of his betrothal?